Escape to the High Country, Part 2

I barely slept. Perhaps it was my steady diet of butter toffee peanuts and Ritz Crackers that had upset my stomach. I do not know. Whatever it was, it kept me up most of the night. Tossing and turning, my stomach churning and swirling. I chugged some water, foolishly hoping that it would make things better. It did not. But I kept doing it anyway. Might as well stay hydrated in this time of gastrointestinal distress...

I'd lay curled up in a ball and then sit up and wobble around and then curl up into a ball again, all positions uncomfortable, a good night's sleep out of the question. It was around 3am when I realized that I probably had to give up the hike I had planned for the day, that I'd have to simply get up and drive on back home and pick up some Pepto Bismol while I was at it. But then 4am rolled on by and I managed to doze for a little while and when I awoke I felt marginally better so I went "ehh" and figured I might as well give the hike a try, stomach problems be damned. 

The plan was to make a big ol' loop: I'd start at the Bristlecone Trailhead, leave it near the glacial moraine, ascend Doso Doyabi via its north ridge, traverse over to Wheeler Peak and then take the summit trail back to the parking lot, maybe making a slight detour over to Bald Mountain on the way down if I felt like it. According to the beta, the whole route seemed to be around nine miles with about 5,000ft of elevation gain. 

So I quickly changed into my stinky clothes from yesterday and drove up the road, the morning sunlight faint and faded upon the gray rocks of the high peaks. I pulled into the parking lot, the thing completely vacant. Got out, laced up the shoes, and then began the trek to Doso Doyabi.

It was good to be back. I'd hiked this trail with Grace in August of last year so I already knew what to expect. No surprises, no jolts of excitement. Just a neat trail in a neat area with neat lighting and neat temps. Nothin' crazy. Just the way I like it. 

First look at Doso Doyabi, north ridge visible center

And I rounded a corner and caught my first glimpse of Doso Doyabi and its north ridge, the thing lookin' for all the world like a textbook slog. A terrifically scenic slog on gorgeous rocks, but a slog nonetheless. Perhaps the slog would quell the storm in my stomach. Only one way to find out: I kept walking. 

I walked for a few more minutes and then made the decision to leave the trail to start the meandering, rollicking, cross-country schlep across the exquisite glacial moraine. Sparkly rocks, variegated rocks, smooth the touch, streaked with bits of green and white and deep, silky gray. Big and small, pointy and round, I hopped from crazy rock to crazy rock, enjoying the scenery, the clinking sound the rocks made when I jumped on them, everything nice and cool, my stomach still upset for whatever reason but hey, whatchu gonna do? 

And soon I had left the land of Bristlecone and had entered the land of rock and I made a bee-line to the north ridge and began the slog, little by little, one step at a time. Once I'd gained the ridge, all that was left was a straightforward—albeit steep—trudge to the summit. 

Approaching the north ridge

Looking down the north ridge

It would seem that my heavy breathing and tachycardic heart rate finally provided a cure for my upset stomach, or maybe they were simply fantastic distractions. Whatever the case, I felt much better once I was sloggin' up that ridge. Aching legs and burning lungs I can handle, nausea and stomach cramps I cannot. 

I took my time heading up the ridge, one simple little step at a time. The views started comin' in, beautiful, expansive, mind-bending views. I payed them no mind. Just stayed focused on the slog. No poles, no problem. I did as Kris Kringle once said and put one foot in front of the other, moving up the gorgeous, sparkly rocks, huffin' and puffin' until I reached the flat summit. 

Wheeler from Doso Doyabi

Northeast

I sat down, took out the register. The last person to sign the booklet did so on May 9th of this year. Reading the entries, I realized that most people who climb this peak summit Wheeler first and then descend the north ridge, something that makes a hell of a lot more sense than what I just did. But there ain't nothin' wrong with a good ol' slog; in fact, some crazy folks actually welcome it. If you're one of those freaks, then ascending the north ridge would be right up your alley; I can say with confidence that it's nothin' but a tried and true, genuine, bona-fide, good ol', long, steep, class 2 slog. Descending it would be quite fun. But then again, ascending it cures stomach problems. Who's to say which way is better? I'll leave it at the reader's discretion...

Anywho, I left my marks in the booklet, took a look around, burped, and then carried on my merry way. I hiked to another highpoint in the distance, turned around, snapped a photo of Doso Doyabi in all its glory, and then continued on my traverse over to Wheeler, everything wide and expansive, the views stretching off into infinity. 

Doso Doyabi in all its glory

Traversing over to Wheeler, Baker Peak right

And I lost some elevation on the traverse but it was alright, ok, no problem, everything was fine, just fine, no worries, not a care in the world. I was havin' a grand ol' time, my angry stomach a thing of the past, the mountain air fresh and invigorating, the traverse a simple, straightforward romp across beautiful alpine terrain. And I saw Jefferson Needle in the distance and it reminded me of Keeler Needle (the peak that's immediately south of Mt. Whitney) and it looked like a neat little detour and I was in a neat little mood so I decided to go for it. How bad could it be?

Jefferson Needle. Looks easy, right?

Oh boy...the crux...

Just a smidge of exposure, hahaha

Well, as it turned out, not that bad. Until the crux. The crux was a nice surprise. There I was walkin' up nice and mellow class 2 terrain, and then, all of a sudden, I come across this crux. A narrow, crumbly sidewalk that lead to some questionable class 3 with terrific exposure on both sides. I paused, said "Oh wow" and then turned on my brain, testing each rock, sticking to the east side of the sidewalk. Instead of the sheer cliff on the west side, the east side had a bit of a slope to it for a little ways until it terminated in a sheer drop-off. So I stuck to the east side, reached the class 3 section, carefully ascended that, and then walked across another narrow sidewalk to the summit. No register up there, just a big ol' cairn. I snapped a few pictures, took in the exposure, and then carefully made my way back. 

Jefferson Needle summit

Wheeler Peak

Doso Doyabi

Now fully awake, I continued along with my traverse over to Wheeler. Some clouds started to form overhead, but they didn't look scary. Just chillin'. Not botherin' nobody, minding their own business. At least for now. There was no rain in the forecast, but that don't mean diddly squat. Always gotta use your own eyes to gauge the weather in the mountains. You'd be surprised how quickly weather can turn for the worse. 

Continuing the traverse, Wheeler Peah ahead

Almost there...

And I climbed up steep and beautiful class 2 terrain to the summit of Wheeler Peak, the rocks streaked with orange lichen. I stood atop the highpoint and looked around, the views just as good as I remembered them. To the north I could see my next objective, Bald Mountain, sitting wayyy down there, quiet and serene. To the south I could see all of what I did yesterday: Baker, West Baker, Pyramid, False Pyramid. Looked nice over there. Peaceful. Calm. And all around me, in every direction, everywhere I looked, rose distant mountain ranges and flat, expansive stretches of flat desert. Wild country, silent country, scenic country, mostly undeveloped, looking for the most part exactly how it's supposed to look and how it had looked for zillions and zillions of years.

South, Baker Peak and Co.

West

North, Bald Mtn center left

And then I met the first person I'd seen all day, an off-duty wildland firefighter. And then came more people, more sounds, more traffic. It was time to go. I said goodbye to the summit, snapped a few photos, and then began the descent down the trail, hiking towards my next objective: Bald Mountain.

Descending the trail, looking back at Wheeler

Lingering snow

Bald Mtn

I met more folks on my way down, everyone in seemingly good spirits, stoked to be experiencing the sublime essence of the high country. And Bald Mountain loomed in the distance and I left the trail at a random point and pretty much just walked in a straight line the rest of the way to the top, careful to avoid delicate alpine foliage. 

Saw a couple bucks on my way up. What they were doing way up there above the timberline, I have no idea. They noticed me, they stared. I waved at them. They didn't move. They just stared. Just stared with their beady little pitch-black eyes. And then they returned to whatever it was they were doing on the mountain, walking away from me. I never saw them again. 

I reached the summit, took a look around. Good views, good views all around. I ventured a little ways to the south, off the summit, sat in the sun, looked at Doso Doyabi and Wheeler and Jefferson Needle. Watched the sun, watched the shadows dance upon the rocks, watched the clouds as they grew and shrank, grew and shrank. Ate the rest of my butter toffee peanuts. Ate the rest of the Ritz Crackers. My stomach made no protest. Hell yeah. Life was good. I took the longest break of the day sittin' there in the sun on Bald Mountain, glad to be in the high country, relishing every moment. Ahh yes. This was exactly what I was lookin' for. I held onto the moment for as long as I could, time at a standstill. 

North Snake Range

And then it got cold and I threw on a layer and the rocks, though pretty, were quite uncomfortable and soon the trance was broken and it was time to go. I am not a Bristlecone, I do not belong in the high country. Sooner or later I have to leave. That's just the way it goes. 

And so I made my way off Bald Mountain, zig-zagging down an open slope back to the trail. Stopped at Stella Lake along the way; looked exactly how I remembered it from last year. And then it was back to the trail, downhill, out of the high country, back into the aspens, the greenery, the lovely subalpine scenery. And soon I heard the sounds of the cars on the road and before I knew it I was back in the parking lot and the day was complete, the trek a success. 

Stella Lake

It was only noon. Still had several hours of daylight. So I stretched and changed into less stinky clothes and read for an hour and then drove on down the road, stopping at every scenic viewpoint along the way. Met up with that same wildland firefighter at the Mather Overlook. Seems like we both had the same idea. And then I drove on back to the Osceola Ditch Trailhead and walked on it for a little ways, turning around at Mill Creek. Not a whole lot left of that ditch. Over 100 years of wind and rain and snow have pretty much erased all evidence of it ever existing. 

And then I drove on down to the Lehman Caves Visitor Center and pulled up a chair and read some more and debated staying another night. But the evening ranger program didn't seem too interesting and that proved to be the deciding factor and so I rocked a pisser and then set off on the ol' road back to Utah, the trip complete, my escape to the high country a success. 

Escape to the High Country, Part 1

There is something peculiar about high altitudes. The atmosphere possesses a certain flavor, a distinct personality. It invades the airways with vim and vigor, caressing your insides with a sweet, mysterious concoction of dust and nothingness. The sun hits different up there in the high altitudes, bouncing off the sharp, pointy rocks uninhibited. Hardy plants willingly decide to cling to the most uninviting surfaces, existing in spite of all things reasonable, shouting to the world, "Look at me! I am here! I am alive! Gaze upon my existence and weep!" And some people do and some people don't and most people don't even notice these things at all. They simply keep walking amongst the rocks, the tiny little gnarly plants barely perceptible, far too small to be of much notice to the common passerby. 

The high country. It's a spot of meditation. A spot to clear the mind, to take it all in, reflect on things, look into the sky at nothing in particular. Keeps the mind rolling; a fantastic mental lubricant. I needed to get away for a bit, needed to meditate on something in particular that I won't get into right now. When dealing with the confusion of life, the hectic curveballs it throws at us, when it presents a situation that is both shocking and tragic and bewildering and just plain sad, different folks will process the aftermath in different ways. I chose to escape to the high country. Solo. Just me and my thoughts and the road and the endless sky. 

Long clouds, bumpy hills. Sagebrush and sand and dirt and rocks. Road work. Loose gravel. Old guys driving old trucks, fast and slow and slow an fast. Tanned arms, hanging out the window, swarthy as can be. Old buildings, peeling paint. Quiet towns, nothing going on. No kids out playing in the park. Too hot. No one out on the street either. Just a bunch of closed down shops, boarded up windows, vacant restaurants. 

These tired towns are much like the hardy alpine foliage of the high country; both barely cling to existence yet still somehow survive in spite of everything. I drove from one town to the next, each connected by a thin little line of a road, a delicate string, a mere strand of hair in a vast country of rugged mountains and expansive flatness and omnipresent heat.

And soon I'm really out there in the boonies; wouldn't see another town for the next 80 miles. Driving up and down, up and down. Down into the basin, up into a range, back into a basin, up into another range. No cars. Just an old, cracked road. 

Expansive country, empty country. Well, not entirely empty. There's a whole bunch of prickly plants and scorpions and wasps and lizards and beetles and mice and coyotes and hawks and flies and trillions and trillions of single-celled microorganisms. Can't forget about those buggers. Them's everywhere.

But you see, it's more dramatic if I say it's empty; makes it seem like I was really out there roughin' it in the great outdoors, man vs. nature, something real silly like that. Truthfully, I paid no mind to the scenery. Didn't give a hoot as to whether it was empty or not. Just stared at the road and listened to Ween and Jorge Ben the whole way.

But eventually my trance was interrupted when I finally saw the high country in the distance. I saw the gray peaks, I saw the lighting, the fantastic air. Yep. I needed to get there. And I drove towards it, the scene growing closer every moment. Excitement. Anticipation. Soon I had crossed the border into Nevada and was driving through the town of Baker. Stopped at the visitor center. Filled up my bottles. And then it was off into the National Park, driving along the road, first asphalt, then dirt. Reached the end of the road. There was an outhouse there. It did not excrete any unpleasant aromas. Whoopee. And the clouds had grown and were now stretching across the sky, a big ol' gray and puffy blanket. 

Alone. No one around. Baker Creek gargling and barbling. A slight breeze. I got out a book and read it in the shade next to the creek. Dipped my toes in it. Too cold for my liking. And then some people showed up and they walked along. I walked as well, sauntering through the aspens, thinking of nothing and everything, hands behind my back. And then I returned to the creek and walked back to the ol' car and sat and rolled down the windows and listened to some George Carlin and watched a bunch of deer cross from one side of my field of vision to the other. And then it got dark. And then I got tired. And then I rolled out the pad and took off my shirt and curled into a fetal position and dreamt of silence and snow, the night an illusion, the passing of time no longer making any sense.

Baker Peak in the distance

And I awoke and guzzled down some butter toffee peanuts and began my day of mountain meditation. This would be a long meditation, one rife with sweat and soreness and anxiety and awe and serenity and some obligatory bowel discomfort. Always gotta have that. 

I walked along the trail, slowly gaining elevation, the morning nice and calm. Unlike my bowels. They do not like the morning. Or maybe they just don't like me. For the past week I'd been forcing my homemade yogurt upon them. Stuff was disgusting. I'd burnt the milk and let it sit for far too long, the end product looking more like cottage cheese than yogurt. Had to force it down. Why not just throw it away you might ask? 'Cause I ain't gonna waste it. I ain't no quitter. I finish what I start, dammit!

And so I continued to force this disgusting "yogurt" upon my digestive tract and finally, that nice and soft and quiet morning in the peaceful serenity of the forest, my guts figured it was a good idea to reward me with the kind of bowel movement that would make most people forgo their belief in all things holy. What a marvelous scene it was; the sunlight filtering through the green leaves of the swaying aspens, the gargling stream of Baker Creek, the stately pines, the chirping of birds, all of it calm and composed, placid and still. And then there was me in the bushes grunting like a ghoul, sounding for all the world like a horse in labor, sweat dripping from my brow and toes gripping the inside of my shoes like a bat does the roof of a cave. 

Baker Creek

A few moments later and the exorcism was finally complete, so I continued on my merry way, everything bright, brilliant, beautiful. A wonderful trail, a fantastic trail, slowly leading me into the high country, the place I needed to be. The grass vanished, the trees became more hardy, shorter, less stately. These trees had seen some stuff, they'd been around the block a few times, they shared little in common with the prissy sissies in the lower elevations. And the ground became more rocky and the clouds more puffy, blocking out the morning sun. Up and up, a few switchbacks here, a few there, and then finally, finally, I had reached the trail's terminus, the end of the line, the main destination: Baker Lake.

Baker "Lake"

Baker Peak

More like Baker Puddle. Due to the lackluster winter this year the thing was drastically low, the whole thing split into two distinct sections of shallow, murky water. Sad, but not sad enough to rouse a tear from my eye. In fact I was rather indifferent. I had bigger fish to fry at the moment. Saw Baker Peak off to my right. Looked like a jolly good slog. Just what I needed.

And so I waved goodbye to Baker Puddle and started off to Baker Peak, noticing a group of backpackers who had camped at the shore packing up their stuff and getting ready to head on back to the trailhead as I made upward progress. Up and up, lots of rocks, lots of beautiful, striated, sparkly, amazing rocks. Great Basin's gotta have the prettiest rocks I've ever seen. There's just something about them; they got style, grace, a wonderful pizzazz. They're a joy to see. A joy to hear. Clink clank clink. A soothing cacophony, a benevolent auditory ointment for the ears.

Looking back at Baker Lake

Trailhead is way down there somewhere

And it was a class 2 slog for sure but the footing wasn't too bad and the beauty of the rocks made it worth it and soon I was near the top, big ol' puffy clouds forming in the southeast. A slog here and a slog there and I had finally made it to the wide summit, the thing surprisingly flat and open. I found the register. Looked inside. The booklet was placed in August of 2024 with the most recent entry dated April 6th of this year. I scribbled down the date (July 2nd) and left my marks, my entry bringing the total to eight for the entire booklet. Yep. Either most people who summit this peak simply don't bother with the register or this thing gets very few visitors. I suspect that both assumptions are true. 

Baker Summit, West Baker in the distance

North, Wheeler Peak (left) and Co.

The clouds became more puffy and dark, finally bursting at the seams and dumping thin strands of rain over Pyramid Peak a little ways to the south. I heard no thunder or lightning, but the scene didn't sit right with me. Definitely didn't want to repeat the events of Wildrose Peak. Nuh uh. No sir. So I didn't linger long on ol' Baker, instead rushing off the summit towards the next closest highpoint just to the west. I kept an eye on the puffy clouds to the southeast, the things static, stationary, slowly dripping moisture over the high country, neither growing more insane nor dissipating into something less severe. 

Tiny flowers

West Baker

I reached West Baker, a fairly unremarkable spot in my opinion. Only thing it had going for it was a tremendous view of Baker Peak. By far the best view I saw all day; truly spectacular, in every sense of the world. High cliffs, crumbly walls, a massive cirque, all of it accentuated by an unfathomable smattering of beautiful and jagged rocks that covered the whole scene, sprinkled on top of the land like powdered sugar from the hand of a giant celestial chef. I lingered for a moment or two, admired the scene, inhaled, exhaled, felt the cool air invade my lungs, and then made my way off the summit, heading towards this ridge directly to the south. 

Wheeler Peak and Co. from West Baker

Baker Peak. Wow.

Along the southern ridge

The idea was to make a loop of sorts. I wanted to spend as much time in the high country as possible, climbing as many summits along the way as seemed necessary. One such summit was Pyramid Peak, an aesthetically pleasing mountain that I saw on the drive through the desert the day prior that I knew I just had to climb. But Pyramid Peak lay on the other side of a large cirque, almost directly opposite of Baker Peak. Didn't wanna climb all that way back down to Baker Puddle and then climb back up to Pyramid Peak. No no no. Didn't wanna lose all that vert. I'd worked hard to gain that vert. And I was damn well gonna keep it.

So I figured I could traverse this ridge, staying high in the process, walking up above and to the west of Baker Puddle and maneuvering my way to the saddle between Pyramid and this other mountain called Johnson Peak. Earlier that morning, when I was looking at the ridge from Baker Puddle, I was a little apprehensive about this plan. The ridge appeared to be a wee bit precarious. A jagged, precipitous, crumbly mess. But as I was heading down to this ridge from West Baker the thing looked fine and dandy, no worse than class 2. Just had to stay off the crest and I'd be fine. 

Traversing the ridge, Baker Lake below

Staying off the crest, lots of loose side-hilling

I stayed fairly low, side-hilling along the somewhat loose class 2 western slopes of the crumbly ridge. There was one spot where I had to perform some class 3 downclimbing, but I'm sure this can be avoided with the use of patient route-finding skills, something that I severely lack. I don't know man. I saw the puffy, rainy clouds up ahead and I was like "Well, if they come over here I'm screwed" so I was trying to make it to the saddle as fast as I could, heading to a spot where I knew there would be some shelter if it were to start stormin' like crazy up there. 

But the clouds never came. In fact, they grew soft and wispy, disintegrating away on their journey to the southeast, leaving me alone for the time being, my rush to the saddle in vain. Oh well. Better to play it safe I suppose. 

The saddle between Pyramid and Johnson

At the saddle, I made what I believe was the smart decision to not climb Johnson Peak. I coulda, but I didn't. There were these big ol' clouds forming near Wheeler Peak to the northeast and these even bigger clouds off to the northwest, both of 'em heading in my direction. Didn't like the looks of 'em. So I decided to shorten the day and climb Pyramid Peak, something that I had more than enough time to do before these clouds rolled in (if they rolled in at all; weather is sooooooo unpredictable in the mountains as I've come to learn over the years...). Plus I had a big day planned for the next morning and I'd need my legs to be in somewhat good shape and climbing Johnson Peak probably woulda been a step too far anyways so I said see you later, thank you, goodbye, and high-tailed it up the southwest ridge of Pyramid, following a use trail most of the way to the pointy summit.

Johnson Peak and Johnson Lake (below)

Eagle Benchmark (left) from Pyramid summit

Wheeler(in shadow) and Baker(center) from Pyramid Summit

Southish

There was a tiny lil' register tucked in the rocks of a wind shelter. Thing had wayyy more entries than the one on Baker. I can probably figure why. Pyramid Peak, for all intents and purposes, is a bona fide classic. The thing looks like a peak. Sounds like a peak. Tastes like a peak. It's triangular. Pointy. Rocky. Cardiovascularly challenging. It checks all the boxes, covers all bases. Plus the views from the top are pretty dang good too. 

I signed my name and the date, the last entry from June 26th of this year. And then I sat on down and nibbled on some bread and looked at the dark scary clouds in the distance and went "yep" and then got up and started truckin'. Couldn't linger too long. I ain't riskin' gettin' caught in a storm again. Been there, done that.

And so I descended off Pyramid's northeast ridge, heading towards its subpeak, "False Pyramid." My oh man. How I feel for those who climb False Pyramid first. That ridge was steep as all ever could be. A textbook slog. I can only imagine summiting False Pyramid, thinking that you've finally done it, that you've reached the summit of this most peaky of peaks, only to see this steep-ass northeast ridge separating you from the true summit. That would just plain suck. Perhaps this ridge is what they use in the dictionary to describe the word "suck." I don't know. All I know was that I was glad I was descending it. Don't think I'll ever climb up that thing. If I do then that means something went horribly wrong at some point in my life and that I've ran out of options and am likely at the end of my rope. If you ever see me climbing up that ridge...send help. 

Descending the steep-ass northeast ridge to False Pyramid

And I reached the bottom of the steep-ass ridge and began climbing up a much more mellow ridge to the summit of False Pyramid. Not a whole lot going on up there, truth be told. No register, no signs of any recent human visitation. Just a bunch of rocks. Jumbled, sparkly, beautiful Great Basin rocks. 

Pyramid from False Pyramid

Eagle Benchmark

Baker (left) and Wheeler (center left)

Northeast

With the last peak of the day finally in the bag, now all that was left was a nice and short descent off the mountain and back to the trail. Only problem was that I had no idea which way to get off the mountain. Do I continue to the northeast, descending a mellow ridge into the forest and then bushwhack my way to the trail? Or do I take a more direct descent and charge down the north gully directly beneath the summit, the thing steep, loose, unknown. Could be cliffs down there. Wouldn't wanna get cliffed-out. 

And so I decided to take what is likely the worst option: a direct descent down the west face of False Pyramid. Do NOT go that way. I repeat, do NOT go that way. Just don't. I thought it would be a fun little boot ski down some soft scree. Nope. Nothin' but horribly loose, unstable, super steep class 2 on sharp rocks that gave out from under my feet at every damn step. But I'd made my decision and I certainly wasn't gonna go back up the thing and so I cautiously made my way down, careful not to destroy my ankles too much. I'd need 'em for tomorrow. 

Beginning of the descent, not too bad...

Ugh....

Got to some fairly level ground eventually, causing a few minor rock slides along the way but oh well. The trail was still a long ways off and I still had a whole lot of slope to descend, but luckily it was much more manageable and a hell of a lot more stable. My recommendation for those who decide to summit False Pyramid (which I wouldn't see why you'd be doing that in the first place unless you're a complete freak like myself) is to just take the north chute for the descent. When I eventually got back on trail I stopped at a spot where I could see the chute and the thing looks like it goes and goes well, leading steeply off the summit into a small forest of aspen trees.

Lookin up at the steep, loose nonsense

Trail is somewhere in that line of trees...

Finally done with the loose nonsense, I took a wee breather and soaked in the views that stretched before me. Clouds hadn't moved in yet and I was well on my way out of the danger zone so I damn well took my damn time soakin' in this damn view. At long last I could finally sit and relax and absorb the essence of the high country without worry or fright. And I sat and observed, watched the light dance upon the rocks. I could see everything I'd done that day, see Baker Peak off to my right, the crazy ridge dead ahead, Pyramid off to the left. Gorgeous shadows, rugged pines, puffy clouds, a piercing blue sky. Yep. Doesn't get much better than that.

Meditation complete, I sauntered the rest of the way off False Pyramid, walking through some deadfall and debris back to the trail. Down, down, down, out of the high country, back to the desert, the environment changing before my very eyes with each passing step. Goodbye limber pines, hello aspens and grass and rushing water and hey, there's those backpackers from earlier that morning, chilling in the creek, just having a grand ol' time...

Baker Creek

And the aspens turned to sagebrush and shrubs and a cactus or two, some in bloom, some not. And I made it back to the trailhead and sat down and stretched and ate more butter toffee peanuts and read a little more and then drove on out of there, down the road, dusty, dusty, hot. Drove on over to the Lehman Caves Visitor Center. Filled up my bottles. Pulled up a chair. Sat there for hours. Read. Walked around. Stared off into space. Wanted to see the Astronomy Program later that night. I was simply killin' time. And killed it I did.

And the sun set and people started showing up and I walked over to the amphitheater and learned about "creatures of darkness" and the history of telescopes and stuff like that. And then everyone got into neat little lines and we each took turns lookin' through the telescopes. Saw Alcor and Mizar. Saw the Swan Nebula. And it was well past 10pm and I had to get up mighty mighty early in the morning and so I didn't stay for the whole event and I thanked the telescope operators and then drove on out of there, parking the car at the Osceola Ditch Trailhead. Rolled out the pad. Took of the shirt. Conked out. Well, not really. My bowels came back to haunt me yet again. But that's a story for another time...